


are heart eyes a fashion statement??

by livingtheobsessedlife



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, yet another fashion designer au that literally nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-08-13 09:17:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20171851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingtheobsessedlife/pseuds/livingtheobsessedlife
Summary: “Look, here’s the dealio, the two of us couldn’t exactly come to an agreement about who to hire so I did what I do best and decided that throwing money at the problem was my best option, ‘kay?"Phil blinked, Clint narrowed his eyes."Look, what I'm trying to say is that you both got the job," Tony supplied, rather unhelpfully, "Exciting, yeah?"Phil hoped desperately that the wave of nausea didn’t present itself across his face. By the nervous expression Cap adopted, it probably did. They're screwed.“But this is good,” Steve pressed, “You can share ideas and make your work doubly as good, right?”It was hard to say no to Captain America, but well,no.





	1. Chapter 1

“Can I have a beer?” Phil entreated, slipping tiredly onto a bar stool. He had entered the first bar he came across walking down 1st Ave, choosing the Captain’s Corner with its lovingly familiar name. The bartender nodded in his direction as Phil called for his drink, pulled out a bottle and slid it to him. 

With his designs finally submitted, Coulson could finally sit back and let out a long, bated breath. There was nothing he could do about the job anymore. It was in the hands of Steve Rogers and Tony Stark now. 

When the job had opened up, Phil had been confident and cocky and had begun designing immediately, passionately, but now… he was doubting himself left and right. Damn Barton, messing with his head. Why couldn’t Phil Coulson be the new Official Designer of the Avengers? Why not? Clint Barton’s obnoxiously innovative skills were exactly why not goddammit. But now… there was nothing he could do about any of it except be confident in his art and his skill. 

Phil stretched languorously underneath the haranguing atrocity of The Captain’s Counter’s neon lights. His beer reflected red and blue and gold and the horrific hues of future alcoholism and doubt and destinies unknown. There were reasons Phil didn’t go to bars all that often. They made him feel like a failed writer discovering that alcohol made the words come back and that the shadows and grime felt like home. But Phil Coulson wasn’t a failed writer, no, he was a wildly successful designer with skill and ideas still bursting from him, even at his age, thank you very much. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / 

He had gone to college later than most, that was how he had ended up in the same class as Clint Barton despite the age difference. Out of high school, he had thirsted for someplace to belong. He’d always been something of an outcast: obsessed with Captain America, gay and trapped in the closet by the strong-armed curse of suburbia and expectations, more intelligent than most, top of his class, gifted with a pencil and paper, but quiet nonetheless, an observer more than a doer. To quell his lifelong curse of loneliness, Phil joined the marines. 

Phil loved the Marines. 

His squad embraced him like a brother and after training they rapidly became one of the most efficient teams on the force. They completed mission after mission with virtually no civilian casualties on record, anticipating every possible obstacle, collecting data under their own timetables that no analyst or leader ever even imagined could be projected. They were unstoppable. They were brothers. 

Then disaster struck. 

They hadn’t anticipated a bomb- it was supposed to be an easy op. With a single mistake, half of Coulson’s squad was blown from existence, the other half left in tears and blood and disaster. As help dragged him back to base, clinging to his life, Coulson blearily realized that he was going to lose his hand and bear countless other physical repercussions on his body. He wished he could be back there, with his brothers, obliterated, forgotten. 

When Phil woke up three days later, the medics told him what happened and Phil screamed at the top of his lungs, shredding his own innards with the ferocity of it as if this physical pain could tear the heartbreak away, demanding that they drag him away, take him with them: what gave him the right to survive when his brothers didn’t. The doctors ended up sedating him heavily, pulling him out only three times a day, once of which was used to force him to talk with a therapist. His recovery was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. He was lonely all over again, and he hated it, but he hated the fact that he had lost them even more. 

Months later, Phil was discharged. He had a new robotic hand that he despised, but appreciated. Learning how to operate life with a single hand had caused an uproar in his therapy for weeks. But fortunately, Phil had a good friend from another unit who had recently transferred to a particularly clandestine division of the CIA, Nick Fury, and when Nick heard what had happened, he made sure that Phil was outfitted with a top-of-the-line robotic hand, designed by the CIA’s top engineers. He had a hand now, or at least a contraption that looked like a hand and belonged where his hand used to be. Phil flexed it subconsciously. He’d have to get used to it, but at least it looked real. 

From the cradling exclusion of his hospital bed, Phil had decided that he didn’t want to go back into the military or any military-associated branches. He couldn’t deal with the trauma of losing those close to him again, nor the reminders of what he was dragged through. It was a hard decision: he called himself a coward over and over and over again until the word lost meaning and he drenched himself from his own sorrows with the determination to start again. 

So he went to school. Phil had always been good at school. He was smart and diligent, determined and competitive. Phil was accepted into the SHIELD School of Art and Design with flying colors. In the company of the marines, he’d missed the feeling of a pencil in his hand and his own creation on paper before him. In recovery, Phil used to entertain himself and the nurses by drawing caricatures of the harsh-minded military doctors. As he ran out of military personnel to mock in illustrated form, he began to take requests from the nurses, fueling their fantasies on paper. 

“Draw me somebody handsome,” Angel had demanded one day, snickering as she checked his blood pressure, “Somebody who wouldn’t act like an ass, y’know.” Phil nodded, set out to work. 

“Draw me something for my niece, a unicorn or something I don’t know what kids like,” Therese had begged as she helped him into bed after physical therapy on a particularly good day, “I have nothing to give her for her birthday tomorrow and I work a double shift today.” Phil nodded quietly, asked for a picture of her niece and colored pencils, and within a couple of hours he had a drawing of Princess Lila and her unicorn Lucky. Therese brought him an extra pudding two days later, exulting his talents and praising his ability to save her from sisterly torment forever. Lila had loved it. 

“Therese is right, you know,” Angel said with her arms crossed at the door, “You’ve got some real talent here, Phil.”

“Well it must be true if you two can actually agree on it,” Phil quipped. Therese snorted and slapped his knee goodnaturedly, muttering for him to shut up. 

Angel rolled her eyes, “Have you thought about going to art school or something when you get out of here?”

Phil felt himself go cold. He never thought about what would happen when he got out of there. The word coward bounced around his head with too much sound, a heavy marble of self-ridicule rolling around in his skull, “It doesn’t matter,” He said. The nurses exchanged a look, high-browed and cryptic, “I’m tired now. Can I go to sleep?” They left him alone. 

“Phil,” Angel said the next day as she traipsed into his room with her lunch tray in hand. Therese and Angel had taken to eating lunch in his hospital room, to keep him company and reap the dry humor of his jokes. Thankfully, they had all wordlessly agreed to ignore yesterday’s conversation, forcing Phil into a stagnancy of blissful ignorance about his open ended future. Angel draped herself on the bedside chair, sighing dramatically, “Draw me a gown.”

He had been bored to the point of channel surfing the mere eight local channels that the tv had, remote outstretched, when Angel had traipsed into his room with her lunch and her demands. He looked to her suspiciously, “What? Why?”

“I don’t know,” She said, mouthful of sandwich, “I’m poor and lonely and wish I had somewhere fancy to go. Also, my daughter made me watch Princess Diaries with her last night, so maybe I’m feeling wistful. Draw me a ball gown, won’t you?”

“I don’t know anything about ball gowns,”

She tore open her bag of chips, “Oh, please. You’re Phil Coulson. You’ll figure it out.”

Phil wasn’t entirely certain what she had meant by that, but in all honesty he didn’t mind the sound of it, “Fine,” He said, putting down the tv remote, “Pass me my pencil and sketchbook, please.”

She grinned, “My pleasure. I’ll see you later, Phil!”

Phil just hummed his goodbye distractedly as she disappeared out the door. He was already engrossed in figuring out the mechanics of the design, intrigued by the challenge. 

When Angel and Therese came to check on him the next day, Phil had the drawing in his lap, a smug grin on his face, “One ball gown to order,” Phil said, handing it off to Angel. 

Therese hovered over her shoulder, looking at the drawing with the biggest smile on her face, “Oh my god, Phil! This is the best one yet!”

Angel beamed at him, “Thank you so much!”

“Yeah,” Phil admitted shyly, “It was kinda fun actually, different.”

The drawing showed off an asymmetrical gown, hugging the hips and waist before flowering out toward the model’s feet like a cyclone of beauty. The top of the gown contained a drooping neckline that fell into the dress’s cyclone like magic and displayed elegant off-the-shoulder sleeves that highlighted a silver necklace with a large purple gemstone. The dress was a deep violet color, darkest at the foot of the skirt and brightest where the sleeves fell off of the shoulders, and most notably the color of Angel’s favorite pair of scrubs. It was effortless to imagine the fabric as falling silk, indulgent in the most beautiful way. The model’s hair was drawn in a dramatic updo that revealed dangling silver earrings that dropped down near her shoulders like water or crystalline ice. The sketchy smile of the model’s lips somehow perfectly resembled the cheery grin that Angel greeted Phil with every morning. 

“Phil,” Angel gaped, “This is… so good.”

“Oh, please,” Phil answered modestly, “It was just good fun, is all. I’m glad you like it.”

“You do realize that after doing Angel’s, you’re gonna have to do one for me, too, right?”

Phil laughed and found himself smiling, glad that he could make somebody happy, “Sure, Therese, whatever you want.”

“Please say I can show this to my daughter,” Angel begged, “She’ll be so jealous.”

“It’s all yours,” Phil felt his smile grow. 

Therese shoved his pencils and sketchbook at him, “Okay, okay, enough chitchat, now do me, do me. We’ll leave you alone, just get to work,”

Phil laughed again as Therese shoved Angel out of the room, “Let the man work. We need to milk him for all his talent before he realizes that we’re using him. Move.”

The next day when Therese and Angel came back to get Therese’s drawing, they fell silent for a long moment. Therese held it in her hands and just… gaped. She was rendered literally speechless, which was previously thought to be an impossible feat considering Therese’s aptitude to always have something to say. 

“I love it,” She breathed. Phil smiled. He was proud of this one, felt that it really showed off Therese’s bold, playful personality. He hadn’t realized that he could express that through clothing like that, but he had really enjoyed exploring that side of the art. 

As opposed to the sleek, elegant, yet subtle gown that Phil had designed for Angel, Therese’s gown was bold and eye popping. It was a tight-fitting gown all the way from the dropping v-neck down to the floor. Therese’s curves would be especially extenuated at the waist by the small, black slash just below where the neckline stopped. The elegant gown was entirely black with stringy sleeves and a revealing slit snaking from the hemline all the way up to the thigh. The design could be called simple if it weren’t for the shocking, blood red cape that fell out of the sleeves and down to the floor. The elegance of the gown was matched thread for thread by the sophisticated, bold silver necklace that dropped down into the gown’s exposed cleavage and starred a large eye-popping red ruby. The paper model sported a bright blonde pixie cut identical to Therese’s iconic hair as well as her matching mischievous smile. 

“You’re sure it’s good? I was kind of concerned the cape would be too cliche, or maybe too much?”

Therese spluttered her opposition, “I love it so much, Phil. I’m not kidding. This is- it’s amazing,” 

“You’re giving me too much credit,”

Therese hit Phil in the shoulder, smiling, “Shut up, Phil,”

He made sure to feign pain, “Hey, who’s the patient here?” Therese just hit him again, and he laughed. 

“Do you not see your talent?” Angel said, and Phil was jabbed with the memory of outside, “You have so much potential, Phil.”

“Yeah, right,”

Therese rolled her eyes, “We’re not kidding.”

“Just think about it,” Angel said, backing away toward the door, “Good night, Phil!”

“I’m taking this with me!” Therese yelled as Angel pulled her out of the room, laughing. 

Phil thought about it, on and off between his bouts of doubt and cowardice and self-ridicule. He was going to get out of there eventually, he’d need a plan, but it hurt so much to imagine planning a future when his brothers were covered by fresh dirt stained with tears. 

Angel and Therese continued to visit every day, demanding different designs and drawings from Phil like he wasn’t their patient, which he reminded them with a dry chuckle daily. Increasingly, they requested for him to draw fantastical designs for them. 

Before she left for her sister’s wedding, Angel confided in Phil with a silent tear down her face how lonely she was, how hard things were for her as a single mother, how much she envied her love-addled sister, how she felt stuck and old and trapped at 30. When she got into her car to leave hours later, Angel found a breathtaking design of a wedding dress tucked into her purse with a model that resembled herself. ‘You’ll find him. Trust me. You’re a catch if I ever saw one’ was written optimistically on the bottom, just above the signature P.C. She smiled to herself, and didn’t cry when her sister got married hours later, with her daughter’s little hand wrapped around hers. 

As the last two weeks came around the corner, Phil was beginning to feel antsy in his small hospital room. It didn’t help that Angel and Therese pranced into his room every day, singing about his tightening deadline. He was leaving soon, and as much as they would miss him, they were ecstatic that he was returning to his life of promise. The pair of nurses had watched Phil grow so much during his time with them in the hospital. 

With one week left, Phil’s younger sister came to visit him. She sat on the end of his bed with a big smile, “God, Phil, I can’t believe you get out in like a week. It feels like you’ve been here forever. I’m so proud of you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Phil said, rolling his eyes, pushing off the flattery. His robotic hand twitched and his real hand fidgeted with a drawing pencil, “How’s mom?”

“Excited for you to come home. God, she’s crazy, cleaning constantly, making dinners like mad. It’s like you didn’t live there for 18 years or something.”

“That’s going to be a really annoying situation, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you know it,” Sarah laughed, “She’s been itching for somebody to take care of since I left. She might never let you leave again, you know that, right?”

“Oh, god,” Phil groaned, chuckling

“What are you planning on doing when you get out of here anyway? Back to the marines? School? What?”

Phil’s eyes flickered up to where Angel talked to another nurse and leaned against the reception desk in the hall just outside of his room, “I’ve been thinking about, um, art school or something?”

“Art school?” Sarah was surprised, Phil had never shown occupational interest in art. In high school, it never become anything more than a devoted hobby. He studied figure and composition, took a few classes, but had always been set on a career far from art, “Really?”

“Yeah, I’ve been, um-,” Phil cleared his throat, “Well, it’s something that I’ve picked up since being in here. My options are limited with this,” He held up his robotic hand to signify his meaning and Sarah flinched. 

Silence flowered between them and Sarah sighed tensely, “I’m sorry that I haven’t come to visit much. This has been hard for you, I- I’m sorry.”

Phil always hated pity. He softly wrapped a hand on his sister’s, “It’s okay. I’m fine, really.”

Sarah looked down at her lap, nodded, and absorbed herself in a long, contemplative silence, then let out a sharp breath, “So art? Never would’ve thought that Mr. Smarty Phil would end up going to art school.”

“You don’t think I can do it?”

Sarah actually snorted, “Are you kidding? You can do literally anything. Seriously?”

Phil hid a blush, “Oh, shush,”

Sarah shoved him in the shoulder, “So do you have any of this art you can show me?” 

“I’ve got a few things, yeah, you wanna see them?” Sarah nodded, smiling, and Phil proceeded to pull out three sketchbooks chock full of drawings. 

“Oh-,” His sister chuckled, surprised, “A couple things, huh?”

Phil rolled his eyes as he opened up to a page that he was particularly proud of and turned it around to show his sister. When he glanced up, he saw his sister beam at the drawing and Angel and Therese hiding just outside the doorway grinning like mad, proud as all hell of their little patient. When Sarah wasn’t looking, Phil made sure to stick his tongue out at them, leaving them scurrying away in a flurry of giggles. He was going to miss them when he was gone, definitely, but Phil decided that he was excited for this new trial at life. 

Two and a half weeks later and Phil decided that this was most definitely not an ‘exciting new time’ like he had hoped. Living with his mother was not how Phil Coulson had envisioned his late twenties unfolding. 

But he was to start attending school in a number of weeks and he was feeling anxious and eager to start. With nothing to do under his mom’s care, he had started drawing every day, putting on paper both observations and creative inspirations, and he found himself improving with every passing day. 

School started and Phil thrived. He had thought he was thriving in the Marines, but this was something else entirely. He felt warm, ambitious, challenged. Phil quickly rose to the top of all his classes. That was where he met Clint Barton. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / ///

Clint was fresh from high school, yet still bright, ambitious, ruthless. He had a bite to him, a seriousness, that most other students couldn’t manage. Phil had that bite, too. It was the feel of teeth permanently sunk into your skin, of trauma tattooed onto your chest, of living a real life not cradled in the palm of overprotective parents. Clint’s talents and expression rivaled Phil’s on a constant basis, another glorious challenge. 

Growing up, art was just about the only thing Clint had on his side. Family? No. Family was a no go. He had his older brother for the first, oh, seven years of life before Barney fell into a life of crime and not-quotes and general unreliability, leaving Clint in the hands of abusers and liars and neglectors. The Barton boys bounced around foster homes their entire life. When Clint was five, his father killed his mother in a fit of abusive rage and was sentenced to life imprisonment, not that Clint was complaining. It was the constant movement, the instability that followed, that rocked Clint’s life for eternity. 

Clint had never really had a decent pair of foster parents. He’d heard the type was out there, heard the tales whispered at night by other kids hiding their tears under covers, but he’d never witnessed this himself. Well, except for the single anomaly. 

When Clint was just pushing the age of 11, he and Barney got shuffled into the house of the Smiths. The Smiths were two lovely parents, their 10 year old biological daughter Ava, and their three other foster kids, Jason, Henry, and Natalie. Barney continued his rebellious streak without a second thought. He was never one to show respect to these faux parents, they could do nothing but hurt him. But Clint? Clint adored the Smith Family. 

The Smiths were different. The Smiths opened themselves up to nurture their foster children, listened to their needs and wants and cries. The Smiths were everything that Clint had long overhead all those tear-laden kids whispering about when they thought nobody was listening. 

When the Bartons first arrived, all six of the Smiths were standing eagerly outside of the house. When Clint and Barney tumbled out of the car, Mrs Smith smiled like they were her first-borns returning home after being separated for years, like they were everything. 

“You must be Clint,” Mr. Smith said, crouching down on one knee to meet 10 year-old Clint’s height, “Welcome to our family, Buddy,” He rubbed Clint on the head in the way that Clint had only ever seen dads do on outdated sitcoms. 

“And you must be Barney!” Mrs. Smith smiled brightly, stretching out a welcoming hand to Clint’s teenage brother. 

Barney kicked at the ground and looked upward, refusing to meet her eyes, “Yep, that’s me.”

Mrs Smith seemed unperturbed by his unenthusiastic reaction to meeting her, happily introduced the Barton boys to her patchwork family, “This is Ava, Jason, Henry, and Natalie. Clint, Ava is the same age as you, how about that, huh?” Ava smiled kindly at him and the other three siblings waved them hello as their names were mentioned. 

Clint smiled timidly, waiting for the other shoe to drop, “That’s cool,” His hand was wrapped tightly onto the hem of his brother’s shirt. 

“You boys must be hungry,” Mr. Smith said, wrapping a soft hand around Barney’s shoulder, “Come on in, we have lunch made for everybody.

“Lunch?” Clint whispered, surprised and increasingly reverent. No parent of his had ever had lunch waiting for him, eager to fill his belly and wrap him with warmth, largely unconcerned by money of raising children. 

“Of course,” Mrs. Smith said on his other side, “Come on in!”

They lasted almost a year with the Smiths, the longest that they ever stayed at a single place. Barney had been hurt too many times before and remained closed off to this new family for every second that they were there, but Clint loved the Smiths and the Smiths loved him. 

The Smiths had been the first people to ever nurture Clint Barton. 

Clint and Ava had gotten along well since just about day two of knowing each other- day one was filled to the brim with apprehension, but day two was an entirely different matter altogether for Clint Barton. 

“Do you want to draw with me?” Ava asked Clint the next morning, smiling and holding out a stack of blank printer paper and colored pencils. 

“Draw? With you?” Nobody had ever asked Clint to draw with them that wasn’t a therapist or a school teacher trying to draw out some deep-seeded insecurity. 

“Yeah!” Ava said cheerily, laying her supplies across the kitchen table, “Come on!”

Clint watched from the chair beside her as she set to work, drawing blithely, “What are you drawing?”

“A unicorn! His name is Bob!”

“Why?”

Ava shrugged, “Why not?”

Clint watched in awe as Ava’s pink colored pencil scribbled across the page, drawing boxes and circles that in the end vaguely represented a unicorn, “See!” She held her work up proudly, “A unicorn! Now you try!”

Clint hesitantly took the pencil and paper that she offered him and set to work. His unicorn finished, he looked up to find that Ava had drawn an elephant in the meantime. Clint matched her elephant with a pig, a dancing donkey, a smiling family of eight. 

When Mr. Smith came home from work, Ava rushed to greet him at the door, “Dad, Dad! Look what Clint and I made!”

Ava dragged Mr. Smith to their coloring station where she proceeded to show off every piece of art that Ava and Clint had made, “Wow, kids, these are really good!” Mr. Smith had smiled, “Clint, did you really draw this all by yourself? This is really good,”

Clint couldn’t help but smile shyly, “Thanks, Mr. Smith.”

Mr. Smith rubbed his hand in Clint’s hair, grinning. Clint loved it when he did that. 

It was ten months and hundreds of drawings later when Clint tiptoed down the stairs to get a drink of water, unable to sleep. As he passed Mr. Smith’s office, he heard hushed voices. 

“Dan, he’s started _stealing_. I caught him snooping around in Henry’s room yesterday.”

“Can’t we just talk to him, Jenna?”

“That’s just it, Dan, we _have_! I don’t know much longer we can put up with this.”

Clint could hear Mr Smith’s sigh, could envision the way he ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed a hand over his face, “We’ve never quit on a kid before.”

“We’ve never had a kid like Barney either.”

Silence settled over the office and Clint figured they were done, took a step toward the kitchen, but then Mr Smith’s tired voice spoke again, a near-whisper that Clint had to strain to hear, “Is there any way that we can keep Clint but not Barney?” Clint’s blood ran cold. Keep him? Please, god, please, let him stay. 

Mrs Smith sighed, “I don’t think Barney would let that happen. Clint probably won’t either. They’re all each other has.”

Clint’s heart sank, obese and pounding. 

“So that’s it then? We’re going to lose both of them?”

Clint froze, suspended in midair, fingernails digging into his tiny fists. 

Mrs Smith sounded defeated, “I think so.”

Clint raced back up the stairs with tears in his eyes. As he pulled the covers over his head, he could hear Mr Smith from downstairs, “Is somebody awake? _Crap_.” Clint’s mouth felt more dry than ever. He had forgotten the glass of water. 

A week later, Mr and Mrs Smith sat down with Barney and Clint and told them how much they regretted having to lose them. They told them how they felt it just wasn’t a good fit, that they weren’t the parents that the Bartons needed, that they loved having them live with them for the time that they did. 

“Fuck you,” Barney had said, even when he was just a teenager he had the dirty mouth of a carnie on the run, “We never needed you anyway, ain’t that right, Clint?”

Clint watched the genuine hurt strike across the Smiths’ expressions and he bowed his head. His brother was wrong. The Smiths were exactly what he needed. But he needed his brother even more, “Mhm,” He hummed weakly, helplessly confirming his brother’s accusations. 

“Come on, Clint,” Barney demanded, "Let's go get our things.”

Clint followed after Barney blindly, he always did. He looked up from the doorway, a hand on the wall just before he turned the corner to find Mr and Mrs Smith watching him, arms wrapped around each other in sympathy and comfort and regret. Clint looked back down at his feet, reminded of the conversation he had fatefully overheard and wondering what it would be like to stay. He fought off a tear and nodded his head.

“Thank you,” He said, before following his brother up the stairs. He had to pack. 

The next morning, the whole family crowded around the taxi to say goodbye to the Bartons. It was a scene that Clint had become long familiar with, only this time was different. All of Barney’s goodbye were terse and just tense as always, but Mrs Smith clung onto Clint like she believed in never letting go and Clint actually felt sad when Mr Smith rubbed a hand in Clint’s hair, knowing that it would be the last time. Jason, Henry, and Natalie all babbled about missing them, about how they had loved spending the time with them that they had. 

Finally, Ava trudged toward Clint, looking like she was holding back tears, “I’m gonna miss you, Clint,” She said, Clint didn’t know what to say, so he kicked at the ground, fighting every instinct. 

“Don’t miss me too much, okay?” There was a lump in his throat the size of Kansas and Missouri and every state they had ever been pushed into to try and find family, knowing full well that this was as close as he would ever get. 

“I really liked drawing with you,” Ava said. Clint watched a tear fall down her cheek, “I got you something, so you would never forget us.”

Clint knew one thing was for sure: he would never forget the Smiths. 

Mrs Smith passed Ava a spiral bound sketchbook that she then presented to Clint. There was an 8 pack of colored pencils taped to the back. Ava smiled sadly, “It’s so you can keep on drawing, y’know? Mom had me put a drawing on the first page, so you’d remember us. I drew Bob again, but this time you’re riding him and I’m waving at you in the back,” She opened the book, “See?”

Clint stared at the gift, not able to meet his friend’s eyes, “Th-thank you, Ava.”

Ava didn’t say anything else. Barney opened the car door, “Come on, kid. We’ve got to go.”

Clint made his final goodbye, waving regretfully at the Smiths and all their happy children, “Goodbye,” He said, wishing that they’d stand up, say no, keep him with them forever. He knew it was impossible. He got into the car with his brother. 

The taxi drove off to the address of their next family. Clint looked out the window and watched the Smiths wave at them until the Smith Family House was nothing but a brown blob in a swamp of identical brown blobs, faraway and impossible. 

“What’s you got there?” Barney asked, poking a finger at Clint’s new book. 

Clint fought back tears. He was only ten years old. He held the book to his chest, looked his brother right in the eye, ignored every ounce of resentment he felt toward his flesh and blood and said, “It’s nothing.” He paused, then added, just in case, “It’s mine.”

“Sure, kid,” Barney laughed, turning to look out the window, bored, “Whatever you say.”

The Barton boys lasted two weeks at their next foster home. Barney fought with their foster parents every single night. Clint wondered if that was why Barney had been so okay with leaving: he’d had nobody to fight with, wasn’t comfortable with things just being _okay_ for a bit. 

The Kowalskis didn’t sit down with the Bartons and politely, regretfully tell them that they weren’t working out. Mr Kowalski kicked them out of his house hollering curses and insults, “You’re the worst fuckin’ kid to ever step into my house, Barney Barton!” He’d screamed, plump Mrs Kowalski standing beside him on the front porch, hands on her hips, “I don’t want you ever steppin’ foot in my house again, ya’ hear?”

Clint flinched when Barney shouted back, “Fuck you, Greg! You’re a fat, money-grubbing fuck and everybody knows it! Have a nice life!” Clint was forced into the cab by his brother who threw a twenty at the driver and demanded, “Just drive!” Barney punched the door in his rage, “Never needed them anyway.”

The next day, the Barton boys joined the circus. 

“So,” The ringleader said, leaning back in the chair of his trailer like a makeshift throne, looking over his nose at the pair of boys, “Can you… do anything?”

“Well, no,” Barney said, knee jiggling, “But we’re hard workers and fast learners. Even pipsqueak over here.” Barney reached over and rubbed a hand on Clint’s Head like Mr Smith used to do. It didn’t feel the same at all, colder, stranger. Barney had never called him pipsqueak before. 

The boss had stared at them for several long moments, then leaned forward, “We’ll find something for you boys to do. It’ll be hard work, but… it’s what you get, okay?”

“Of course,” Barney rushed, “Thank you, sir.”

The stout man before them raised his nose up and hummed smugly, like he had given them _life_, had single-handedly pulled these boys out of the pits of tragedy. Clint itched. 

In the fall, Clint went back to school. Barney didn’t, he had to pick up Clint’s job. Things were hard for a really long time there. Barney felt less and less like a big brother and more and more like… a father. Not a father like Mr Smith, more of a father like their own, like their own traitorous flesh and blood. Barney was unhappy, bored, itching to leave. He broke a law every other day, smoke and drank, but he never stopped taking care of Clint. As the years droned on, Clint watched the unhappiness fall into constancy. He didn’t love his brother anymore and his brother didn’t love him, but they depended on each other nonetheless. It was a relationship that they were familiar with. 

As Clint entered high school, he never stopped drawing. Never. He clung to his beloved sketchbook like it was a lifeline to another life trapped in the confines of his fantasies. 

One of the bearded ladies, she called herself Esmeralda, that worked in the kitchens at the back of the carnival had taught him a thing or two about figure, about shading, lights and darks and colors, about shape and form. Clint drank it up eagerly. 

Esmeralda smiled up at him one day, sitting on a log behind the Fried Foods Pandemonium, “This is really good, Clint,”

“Is it?”

“It really is, I promise,” Esmeralda was one of the few genuinely nice people that worked and lived with them at the carnival. She had been there longer than anybody could remember, “Have you thought about taking art classes in high school?”

“Barney wants me to take as few elective classes as possible so I can have enough credits to go to the vocational school. He thinks it’d be good if I trained to be a mechanic.”

“But what do you want?” Esmeralda asked, watching as Clint sketched over a line. She was met with silence, “You’ve got some real talent here, kid, I’m telling ya’. If anybody could, you could get out of this place.” She lumbered off of their clandestine log, creaking as she moved, “I’ve gotta go, the bossman wanted me to oversee the newbies. Just think about it, okay?” Clint turned to a new page in his sketchbook. 

When it came time to sign up for his classes, Clint’s mouse hovered over the Drawing 1 option, he hesitated, thinking of what Barney would say, the disappointment. Barney didn’t want him to waste his life like he had. Clint thought of Ava, of his very first sketchbook and the way he had worked those colored pencils down to stubs. Clint pressed the button. It wasn’t wasting his life if it was something that made him happy, right? 

Barney found out about the class two weeks after school started. He had been rummaging through Clint’s backpack to make sure he had finished his homework when he found the sketchbook. Clint’s drawing had already improved tremendously. The art teacher at the local high school was fantastic. Barney was absolutely pissed. 

“You’re going to turn into Dad, you know that, right?” He’d screamed, throwing the book against the wall of their dilapidated little trailer. Clint hated to watch the way the pages crinkled, forgotten. 

He scoffed, stepped toward his brother. He wasn’t afraid of him anymore, he hadn’t been for years, “Don’t you see, Barney? You’re the one that’s turned into him! You’re unhappy, violent- you’re Dad!”

“You take that back, Clint, right now, or I swear to god, I’ll-,”

“You’ll what? Hit me? I know you won’t. You wouldn’t dare. You-,” Barney slapped Clint across the face. He fucking hit him. Clint touched a hand to his face, “You’re just like Dad.” He stormed out of their trailer, leaving the sketchbook behind. Clint slept in Esmeralda’s tent that night, and was glad in the morning when she didn’t say anything about the childish sobs she must have heard under the dark mask of the night. 

The next day at school, Clint tried to drop out of the drawing class. They wouldn’t let him, he’d missed the deadline. He had to remain in the class for the rest of the semester. 

Much to Barney’s disdain, Clint fell in love with the class. It was the single highlight of his dull, dull day and when midterms came and the class was over… Clint was disappointed. He was going to miss it. But it was what he needed to do, to save his future and Barney’s. He didn’t mind working with cars all that much anyway, it would work out. 

That summer flew by and a gruff old man that they all called Old Carl that worked at the carnival started to offer Clint informal training in car maintenance in exchange for taking over some of his more undesirable shifts. Clint never stopped drawing. Esmeralda used to laugh and tell him how his nose was always in that sketchbook of his, it was a wonder his hand hadn’t permanently attached itself to his pencil. 

The end of the summer came around, leaves shifting and wind picking up, the sun settling on the horizon. Barney found Clint leaning against the Ferris wheel control box on a slow day, sketchbook and pencil propped against the fence as he waited for patrons to come for the iconic ride. 

Barney kicked at the dirt as he approached his brother, looking as apprehensive as Barney Barton had ever looked, “What’s up?” Clint asked, popping his gum. 

“Last night,” Barney said, “I went through your sketchbook when you were asleep.”

“What the hell, man, that shit’s private! You-,”

“Just hear me out, dickhead, hear me out,” Clint crossed his arms across his chest but stayed silent, “So I know I was opposed to it before, but… you’ve got some real good talent, kid. I see why your nose is always in that thing. You’re making stuff, good stuff. I, um, I don’t think I’ll ever really understand it, but… if anybody can get out of here and be happy it’s you, so… I want you to take more art classes, okay?”

Clint was stunned. 

“You in there, kid?”

“I, um-,” He didn’t know what else to say, “What about Old Carl?”

“He can take his damn shifts back, the dirty old man.”

Clint laughed, real and genuine. He couldn’t remember the last time that Barney had made him laugh, “You sure about this?”

Barney rolled his eyes, “Yes, now get back to work before I change my mind.”

Clint couldn’t stop smiling. 

Over the next three years, Clint learned everything he could about art and drawing and design. He took class after class and practiced constantly, learning how to draw people and things and objects. He found that his favorite things to draw were the characters that wandered around the carnival. He would design elaborate outfits for the circus members that pranced around the campground: a liontamer’s leather safari garb, a trapeze duo’s marching red, tutued leotards, the ringleader’s dramatic pinstriped hat and suit combination, all hidden in the safety of his sketchbook. 

Junior year, Clint got his first girlfriend. The night of their first date, Clint tiptoed into the Barton trailer well past his curfew. Barney was waiting up for him goddammit. But he wasn’t angry, wasn’t upset, just leaning back in his cot with a knowing grin.

“Big date, huh?” He’d laughed, “Did you use protection?”

Clint threw a pillow at him, “Oh shut up,” He said, tossing his sketchbook onto his own cot, “It wasn’t that kind of date.”

Clint and Roseanne met in Mr Wilson’s art class, incidentally enough. She’d sat at his table on the first day of the semester, not asking, just sitting and beaming, and Clint was completely mystified from the start. 

Roseanne wasn’t an amazing artist, not like Clint at least, but she loved using art as a hobby, as a distraction. Clint was like that for her, too, a distraction. She loved to lean over in his direction and waste all of class staring at him working, asking quiet, inquisitive questions every once in awhile, making comments, suggestions, requests, every so often making fun of his work. Soon enough they were spending time outside of class, meeting up beneath the bleachers during lunch, walking each other home from school. Roseanne grabbed at his arm one day as the walked to her house, feet moving in time. 

“Hey, Clint?” She had said so, so sweetly, “Wanna go on a date with me? A real one? Coffee?”

All Clint had to do was say yes. He beamed. That day, when he left her at her doorstep, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, “See you tomorrow, Barton,” She’d said softly, disappearing into her house and leaving Clint to stand outside, awestruck. 

After they began dating, Clint and Roseanne were more inseparable than ever. 

Summer came and the young couple spent countless hours laying in the grass in the small woods just behind the carnival’s campground. They’d lay together and talk without end. Clint would draw and she would watch in a seamless game of utter predictability. 

“Draw me something to wear to a party,” She’d say, “Something sexy, something that I’d never be able to afford.” He completed her demands effortlessly, utilizing emerald greens and royal purples and deep blues to compliment her pale complexion and fiery red hair like the art of accessing this beauty was second nature. 

She’d call him late at night and whisper into her phone, “What am I wearing tomorrow, Clint, huh?” He’d tell her, happily, dreaming aloud fantastical designs. He’d whisper back, head under the covers and hoping desperately that Barney couldn’t hear him. She looked beautiful every day. Hell, she looked beautiful without Clint’s awkward genius on her side. 

They said ‘I Love You’ in the middle of July. 

It had been a hot month as a whole, everything seemed to have a sheen of sweat on it, even the non living items stretched out under shady trees without the curse of sweat glands. It was the hottest month on record in nearly twenty years. Nothing was safe from the heat, and it pushed most young teens indoors, away from the sweltering drama. A little rising temperature was never something Clint dwelled on for too long. Just wear less sleeves!

They’d walk the empty streets together, flip flops unattractively flicking against the boiling pavement. They were too sweaty to hold hands, something that Clint had always found irritating, but holding somebody else’s moist hand in your own moist hand wasn’t an appealing idea. They talked without end, their rambling endless until comfortable silences would briefly settle into the cracks of the cement before falling back into an idle, meaningful chatter. 

“You know, Clint Barton,” Roseanne said as they turned onto the street just before her own, stopping in the middle of the road to wrap her arms affectionately around Clint’s neck, “I think I’m in love with you.”

Clint was in love with her, too. Oh, God, was he ever, and he needed to tell her so more than anything in his life. Instead, he paused, “Really?”

She rolled her eyes, rocked closer, “Yes, Clint Barton. I am most definitely in love with you,” Her lips brushed against the corner of his, “You’re kind and wonderful and creative and open and even though you’ve been dealt a surely losing hand you’ve managed to win the poker match.”

“Since when have we been playing poker?” Clint quipped. 

When faced with serious situations, it was a well known fact that Clint would crack jokes, use sarcasm as a cardboard shield between himself and the truth, transparent as a glass mask. 

She shut him up with a kiss, soft and gentle and entirely rendering. 

“I love you, too,” Clint breathed against her cheek as she pulled away, slow and gentle and sweet. 

She smiled and continued their walk down the street toward her house, “I know you do.” They held hands despite the heat. 

In August, Roseanne broke Clint’s heart. 

The July heat had begun to fade back down to an earthlike degree, and Clint and Rosie seemed closer than ever. She was the only thing on his mind, ever. 

Her look the day that she had approached him told more than her words did: she was just as heartbroken as he was, just as devastated that their end would not be voluntary, far from mutual. 

“I’m sorry, Clint,“ She’d said, fighting off tears and staring desolately at her own hands, “Dad got a new job and Mama insists we all move closer to make his commute easier. She won’t even let me finish high school at our school before moving.”

“So where are you going? Newport County?” Newport was the neighboring city, over the train tracks and just south of the lake. 

Clint had never seen Roseanne look so hesitant to speak, to tell the truth, “I- Michigan.”

Clint couldn’t help it, he gaped, “_Michigan_?”

Roseanne grimaced, “Yeah…”

“That’s- that’s so far away. We could probably make long distance work, Rosie. I promise you.”

She shook her head, “I just don’t… see it working out if we try long distance.”

Clint frowned, “I hate Michigan.” _And I love you._ His heart was tearing into two and being dragged halfway across the country without his own consultation. 

“I’m sorry, Clint.”

Clint had nothing left to say. 

Through Clint’s love-doused summer and subsequent angst-borne fall, Barney persisted to make trouble like he always had, shoplifting, alcohol, getting in fights. If nothing else, he was always there for Clint. He’d offer a band aid for his little brother’s broken heart, some plaster to fill in the hole. His methods were never close to effective but he was unequivocally there for his brother no matter what, and that was what counted. 

Senior year, Clint sat down nervously with his guidance counselor and asked about options. She kindly gave him many but recommended one above all the others: SHIELD School of Art and Design. Mr. Wilson, Clint’s art teacher, promised to send a beaming recommendation to one of his friends at the school. 

Clint thought of the long summer spent with Rosie behind the campground, of the countless drawings time brought to fruition. He thought of Rosie and Esmeralda and Ava and Barney and all those yeses between the nos. Clint nodded his head, “Yeah, that’s what I want to do. Definitely.”

The day that Clint got accepted into school, Barney and Esmeralda treated him to an extra large plate of chili cheese fries and a nice big cone full of custard. He was getting out of there, going to school, following his dreams. Barney helped him move out, refused to cry when he dropped him off at the school for orientation. 

“Come here,” Barney grumbled, getting out of the pick-up truck that Esmeralda had guilted one of the sword swallowers to lend them for the day. Barney pulled him into a stiff armed hug, “I’m proud of you, pipsqueak,” He mumbled into his hair. Clint held on a little tighter, “Glad you’re getting out of there.”

“Gonna miss you,” Clint admitted quietly. They both ignored Barney’s muffled, dreary sniff. Clint pulled away first, pulling himself tall “I’ll call you, Barney.”

Barney nodded, watching as Clint disappeared toward his dorm room with his suitcase trailing behind him, “Good luck, kid!”

A month later, Esmeralda sent word to Clint that Barney had gotten himself arrested for fighting. Supposedly, they’d even found drugs and a litany of shoplifted items. Clint was more disappointed than surprised. He tried to call, but Barney didn’t answer. He had enough homework to distract himself for the time being anyway. He never heard anything else about it. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / ///

Clint met Phil Coulson on the second day of school at SHIELD. They were destined to be Rivals from the start. That is Rivals with a capital R, because the pair was so imminently opposed even from the very beginning, there was no way to shortchange it. 

“Hi,” Phil had said on that first day, taking the open seat next to Clint, “My name is Phil Coulson. It’s nice to meet you.” He stretched out a hand for Clint to shake; but Clint was never one for shaking hands anyway, just nodded his head politely and looked at the ceiling. 

“I’m Clint Barton. Good to meet you, dude.”

Class started and they immediately recognized each other’s talent. It was like spotting a volcano erupting from the erupting monster’s base. There was this immediate respect but also a mutual sense of competition, of deadliness and ruthlessness. 

Their professors praised their work more than any other students, paid more attention, told them more secrets. They were neck and neck, top of their classes every step of the way. Their work was more often compared to the others’ than it wasn’t. None of the other students ever truly had a chance. 

The final semester of their senior year at college, one of their professors gave them a bench-marker assignment in which they formed groups based on skill level and instructed students to work together to create a series of fashion-based designs that exemplified their shared abilities as well as they could. Of course, Phil and Clint were paired together. 

They kicked that project’s ass. Their professor framed it on his office wall. He nearly cried when they revealed it. 

Unfortunately, despite the worthy payoff, the pair had fought constantly during the process. They’d screamed and bickered and cursed. 

“You’re kidding me, right?” Phil guffawed one day, laptops and papers spread out in a Taco Bell corner booth like a tablecloth fabricated from their valuable work, “No way, can we pair those two designs together! They don’t mesh at all! And yours doesn’t even have anything to do with the theme!”

Clint’s iconic eye roll made Phil want to die for the eight millionth time, “You’re just not _seeing_ it, Phil- my God, you’re impossible!”

The project went on like that for an entire month, skewed with hard, fantastic work. The entire process was torturous. 

After that experience, Phil Coulson and Clint Barton were determined that they would never again work together. Their personalities were far too different, Montagues and Capulets, radical supporters of opposing political sects, birds and fish, apples and oranges, pitted against one another from the start. There was almost nobody that Phil hated more in the world than Clint Barton and his admittedly damn good designing talent.


	2. Chapter 2

Graduation was a big deal. Phil was proud, Clint was proud, it was a whole big thing- they were both going to do great things. 

All of Coulson’s family came to the ceremony: his mom, his dad, all three of his younger sisters. Sarah whooped and hollered from her seat in the crowd when Phil’s name was called like she couldn’t care less if she lost her voice because her big brother was graduating college and she couldn’t be more proud of the person that she loved. 

When the ceremony came to a close and the graduates were able to find their loved ones among the crowds, Phil raced off to find his family. 

“Phil!” Sarah screamed, jumping when she saw him, wrapping her arms around his neck, “I’m so proud of you!”

Their parents looked on fondly. His father grinned, eyes sparkling, as he barked out a laugh, “If nothing else, I’m glad you’ll finally be out of the house soon,” 

Phil rolled his eyes, his mother swatted at her husband and pressed, “We’re proud of you, son.”

A hand grabbed tightly onto Phil’s shoulder, causing the veteran to flinch before the familiar voice followed, “How’s the hand workin’ for ya?”

Phil spun around with a grin, “Fury! What in the hell are you doing here?”

“My wife’s nephew is graduating today, too, and I got dragged along somehow. I thought I heard your name in that mess. Congratulations.”

Behind him, Phil could hear his sisters turn to each other and begin to make very complicated plans for the dinner that they’re supposed to meet for after the general reception is over. He would undoubtedly have time to chat with his old comrade. 

Phil can’t help but beam, “Thank you, sir.”

Fury nodded, his eye on Phil’s robotic hand, “So the hand’s working out all right? I don’t need Fitz to make any tweaks to it? Nothing?”

Phil laughed, flexed his hand, “It’s great, Fury, really. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done.”

Fury actually laughed, looking strangely like he was being taken by an obscure affliction. 

“Why dont you tell me about the sucker that married you, huh? Is the lucky lady here? Am I going to get to meet her?”

“The name’s Maria Hill,” A voice joined in from the crowd. Fury’s wife apparently had the same habit of appearing in undetectable silence just like her spouse, “I’ve heard a lot about you, Phil Coulson.”

Phil grinned, offered his hand, “It’s a shame I can’t say the same. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You’re going to be a designer, right? Nick told me that you graduated top of your class, with real promise.”

Phil tried not to look smugly in Fury’s direction. His old pal had been bragging about him to his new wife. How… quaint. 

“I’m in the business, you know,” Maria added, sending a pointed look in Fury’s direction, “I’m a photographer. I would love to help you out if you ever want it.”

“Really?”

The smile on Maria’s face was as genuine as Phil imagined a spouse of Nick Fury’s could muster in such a stifling place as a bustling post-graduation reception, “Of course, Phil. Call me anytime. We’ll set something up,” She handed him her number and nodded, “We really need to get back to my sister and her family before I get cut from the will.” The eye roll cause Phil to snort out an inelegant laugh, “See you around, Phil!”

“It was nice meeting you, Maria!” Phil called after the couple as they disappeared into the crowds, “Nice seeing you, Fury!” Phil read the phone number on the business card back and forth, memorizing it. He was buzzing. This was his new life. No more trauma, no more fearborn nightmares. He had a promising career and an open mind and he couldn’t wait, once again. 

Phil tucked the business card into his pocket and turned to face his family, smiling, “Alright, girls,” He said, wrapping his arms around two of his younger sisters, “What’re we doing for dinner then?” They were still bickering about the plan all the way to the parking lot. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / ///

Clint doesn’t have an entourage and a half waiting excitedly for him in the crowd on graduation day. He has Esmeralda, with her cane and her purse full of medications, and that’s it. Barney is stuck is jail and the two of them are all Clint has. 

He watched in disdain, in envy and regret and something even heavier like a slow-motion montage in a sad action film as Phil’s bustling family of sisters and parents approached his enemy with wide smiles and prideful hugs for the older man. Esmeralda broke him from his reverie with a hug of her own. 

“We’re proud of you, y’know,” She said, and Clint couldn’t help but realize how grey she was getting. 

Clint smiled down st her, ignored the feeling in the pit of his stomach, and ran a hand through his hair, “You really are? Thanks, Esmeralda. I appreciate that.”

She leaned up carefully, back creaking as she moved and pressed a kiss to his cheek, “So proud,” She said, “So proud.”

Clint beamed. 

That evening, Clint treated Esmerelda to dinner on him, “It isn’t the greatest,” He said, holding the door open for her as she stepped into the diner down the street from the apartment he’d been staying in, “But it does it’s job, and I get meals for free because I work here.”

Esmeralda's eyes roamed around the sixties-style dîner like she was sizing it up for good measure as they waited for their food. She knew he could do better, way better than a place like this. He had graduated college. For Pete’s sake, it had been years since somebody from their carnival managed to get anything above a GED, let alone a full degree from a real college.

“You’re gonna do great things, Clint Barton,” She said sagely, “One of these days, you’re gonna do great things.”

Clint tried not to blush, brushed it off, “Whatever you say.”

“So what else are you doing? Besides working here and studying of course?”

Clint scratched at his neck, “I have two other jobs as well, to pay for college and all of that, so that pretty much takes up all my time.”

Esmeralda looks utterly scandalized, “That’s it? That’s all you do? You work all day and go to school and study when you aren’t? You’re young, Clint, you should be living.”

Clint doesn’t know what else to say, as per usual, so he shrugged, “Yeah, well, you gotta do what you gotta do. I’m doing my best, Esmeralda. I promise.”

Esmeralda just nodded as a burger was placed in front of her, a plateful of fries in front of Clint. The topic didn’t come up again. 

“Thank you so much for coming, Esmeralda” Clint said the next day, leaning in for a stiff hug, “I really appreciate it.”

Esmeralda smiled softly and rested a comfortable hand on his face, looked warmly into his eyes in that matronly way that nobody else in his life ever had, “Of course I came, Clint. Even you need people. I’m glad to be here.” She stepped away before Clint could ask about what exactly she meant. 

Her words felt cryptic in his ears, Clint wondered why she had specified why he of all people specifically need people. Sure people like Esmeralda were nice to have, but that was just about all he really needed, right? And Clint totally had pals from work or school and whatnot. At the foot of the cracked cement stairs leading into Clint’s building, he watched Esmeralda step into a taxi. She waved at him from behind the window and smiled sadly before the cab pulled away from the side of the road. Clint stood at his stoop until the yellow speck dissolved absently into the New York City horizon. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / //

“Maria?” Phil said into his phone, tapping a pen against a pad of paper on his desk, “This is Phil Coulson, Nick’s friend. I was wondering if you had a moment to talk.”

The woman on the other end of the line sounds deceptively cheery to be Nick Fury’s spouse. Phil would question if it really was her if he hadn’t met the woman in person, “Of course, Phil! I’d love to, what’s up?”

“Well, oh my, this is kind of embarrassing, but the other day you had mentioned that since you were a photographer in the business that you would be willing to maybe… set me up with some people?”

Maria laughs, sweet and cheery and with a clandestine bite to it underneath it all that assures Phil of who he’s talking to, “I would love to, Phil! You know, for all that gruffness that you two boys bark on about, you should know that Nick has said some really good things about you.”

Phil doesn’t have to time to be touched by the sentiment because the next thing he knows, Maria is rattling off times and dates and addresses that he has to scribble down faster than any notes he’s ever had to take. 

“Got it?” Maria said quickly as he finished, unbothered. She didn’t give him a spare moment to respond, Good. Excited to see you, then, Phil. Can’t wait to see what you can do.”

Phil itches at the sound of the dead tone echoing back at him, but he smiled anyway, clapping the stack of papers on his desk to straighten the pages out. He had work to do, a life to live beyond yes sirs and stiff uniforms and wagering bombs. 

Maria greeted him on a near-empty floor of an abandoned industrial space three days later, wearing black leather and a camera hung around her neck, “Welcome, Phil! I’m so excited that you’re here! Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”

She took a step away and gestured for him to follow, “The models and the crew are all here prepping for the shoot, but the designer will show up later, I promise. Did you bring a portfolio?”

Phil shook the black folder slung beneath his arm suggestively, a little to shell-shocked to answer with words. 

Maria smiled, “Good. Melinda is a friend, so she’ll take a look at your designs, maybe give you a couple tips or contacts or whatever, I don’t know, depends on what she thinks.” Maria rounds a corner with her head thrown over her shoulder, “Melinda’s tough on the surface, but she knows how to appreciate talent.”

Phil found himself blushing at the idea of himself actually having real, thriving talent. In the back of his mind, Phil contemplated the repercussions of this so-called Melinda deciding he has zero talent, but he shook the thought away fervently- a little too late for occupational doubts. His robotic hand twitched passively at his side. 

“Okay, okay, let me introduce you to everybody,” Maria said finally, opening a door into a slightly-less-bare space. 

Actually, only half of it was slightly-less-bare. In fact, while one half was just as white and industrially seamless as the path Maria had just brought Phil from, the other half was loaded with tables and carts and hangers and make-up, people bustling about and doing their job. Maria introduced Phil to the models, the make-up team, the lighting crew, her own assistants- everybody pivotal to the entire process. Phil shook all their hands with equal amiability and did his damnedest remember each and every name. 

The entire thing appeared so cliche to Phil, it was laughable. This stark whiteness, a murky combination of industry and emptiness used as a backdrop for fashion and style and ingenuity and exposure in this entirely new world that Phil found himself falling into with joy. It was like something so strangely out of a movie, ticking off every cliche box for a fashion-centric film that existed, all before his very eyes. 

“Alright,” Maria said, leaving the final unintroduced person and tugging at her camera, “You can wander around if you want, observe the process, whatever. Melinda will be here soon and I’ll introduce you then,” She smiled, “Come on, I’ll show you how we do it.” 

Phil stood behind Maria in awe for the rest of the day, observing assistants from every branch of the process rush frantically about so they wouldn’t get stomped on by their bosses. It was exhilarating, watching the art of it all unfold right before his very eyes. Maria showed him the first drafts of the photos for the spread. He loved the way that the blank (albeit cliche) background allowed the vibrant colors of the fashions to pop, draw your eyes to the carefully thought-out designs. 

Melinda May showed up with just short of an hour left of shooting. Phil lingered in the background as Maria showed off the shots that they had. May nodded infinitesimally, nose turned up, shoulders stiff. 

“They’ll do.” She said, dismissing the eye-popping evidence of the day’s hard work without so much as another word.

Melinda May wasn’t quite a legend in the fashion world- not yet, at least- but she was a well-known rising star and Phil suddenly felt very lucky to even be allowed in her vicinity, on her work floor. Melinda’s designs often included a sort of Asian flare rooting from her culture that popped in the western style landscape. It was common knowledge that Melinda May was terse subordinates and superiors alike, a woman of few words and huge ideas. She was small, slender, and often donned all leather. If Phil hadn’t been eagerly awaiting her arrival, she easily could have passed as a body guard or a boxer, maybe some sort of badass assassin- maybe in another life she was, she had the commanding energy of somebody with power and skill. 

Despite the obvious fear that May’s commanding presence preyed upon the motley assistants and most of the rest of the crew, Maria Hill was quite boldly unperturbed by the boss. 

“Melinda,” She smiled, tucking her camera safely onto the table behind her, “I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine. He’s a designer, just out of college actually, but he’s got some real talent.”

Phil stepped forward, “It’s an honor to meet you, m’am,” He shook her hand. Melinda May was a small woman, stiff, tight-lipped. Her mere presence demanded control. Phil took it in stride, “My name is Phil Coulson.”

She looked him up and down swiftly, sizing him up, “You’re a designer?”

“Yes, I have a portfolio here if you wouldn’t mind taking a peek. Maria said you might be willing to give me some tips.”

May didn’t respond, simply reached a waiting hand out for Phil’s portfolio. He pressed his hard work into her hands and took a step back while she glanced through it. Melinda’s eyes painstakingly raked down every page as if she were looking for errors, mistakes, and poor work like it was an iSpy. Her expression didn’t change from a visage of disinterest as she swept through his entire book. Phil waited impatiently, his robotic hand picking at a thread on his sleeve, hands held stiffly together at his waist like a member of Melinda May’s personal secret service. She closed the final page of the book and Phil stepped toward her nervously. 

“What do you think?”

A slender pointer finger tapped at the portfolio cover, “Not bad, Coulson,” She said, “Not bad.”

Phil didn’t know Melinda May at all, but he could tell after her observation of Maria’s work, that a Not Bad was the basic equivalent of a glowing review. He couldn’t help but smile, “Thank you, m’am, I really appreciate it.”

“Here’s my card,” She said, sly, cat-like, effortlessly, “My assistant will set something up, Phil Coulson. I would like to work with you in the future, okay?”

Phil glowed, “Thank you so much, Miss May, I will.” 

May stepped away silently, disappearing without so much as the clacking of a stiletto heel on the tile, like a ghost at twilight into a mist of people. The day closed up, Phil eagerly lingering at Maria’s side. 

She grinned at him as she zipped up the last of her photography equipment, carefully eying the business card clutched in Phil’s hand, “You ready to go, Phil?”

Phil smiled, proud, “Yep,” He said, “All ready.”

They stepped into the summer heat together, out of the starkness of an industrial complex-turned studio and into the bright, lingering sunlight of late afternoon New York City, “How do you feel about chicken wings, Phil?”

“Oh ho,” He said, a hand clutched tightly around his portfolio, holding it close to his chest, “I could certainly go for that right about now.”

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / ///

So what Clint Barton worked three jobs? A lot of people did it. A lot of people trying to put themselves through college did it actually! So what Phil Coulson didn’t? So what Coulson was off making connections and doing the work he wanted to do instead of trading off between hours at a car wash, a diner joint, and a bowling alley? Sometimes things weren’t that easy. 

“Order 23 has been ready for the past five minutes! Barton, get the hell back here!” A voice barked from the kitchen, snapping Clint to attention. He had slumped facefirst onto the front counter, exhausted beyond belief, fatigued by the monotony of sorting silverware.

“I’m coming, Carl! My bad!” Clint grabbed the plate of whipped-cream-drowned waffles and the plate of Double Bacon, Triple Sausage, Protein Bonanza and brought the dishes over to the table, “Sorry for the wait, guys. Anything I can get for you two?” The pair of diner patrons grumbled at his offer, irritated at his lack of speedy diligence, even when it was nearing eleven o’ clock at night and his shift was so close to being done. 

Clint wandered back to his silverware-sorting position at the front counter, shuffling his feet against the ground as he moved, wiping his hands on the front of his apron. 

“Excuse me, sir?” A voice said from the other side of the counter with the most midwestern drawl humanly possible, cliched and boring. Clint’s eyes rose up to find a besuited man standing before him, holding a very familiar black leather folder in his hand, “Is this your portfolio that was lying over there?”

Inadvertently, Clint had forgotten his portfolio/sketchbook on one of the nearby tables, ripe for prying eyes and sticky fingers. Damn late hours and deep-seeded exhaustion. It seemed, that this stranger had decided it was his greatest idea to touch Clint’s things without so much as a thought. 

Clint made a handsy grab for it, ensuring a good take on the front cover and pulling it close and making sure to glare at the overreaching stranger, “Yes, it is,” He said, eyes narrowed, “And it’s private, thank you very much. You had no right to-,”

“Oh, yes, yes, I’m sure it is,” The stranger said, dabbing at a spot of raspberry pie that had dripped onto the lapel of his suit jacket, “But it was very good work.”

“No right to go through my stuff. It’s- wait, what? Did you just say it was good.”

“Well, yes,” The man deadpanned, reaching a welcoming hand out in Clint’s direction, “The name is Jasper Sitwell. I’m in the fashion business myself actually, you may have heard of me.”

“May have heard of you? Are you kidding me?” Clint tried not to gape, feeling suddenly guilty for his earlier defensiveness, “We had a whole chapter back at SHIELD about your strides towards challenging the unexpected in the fashion industry. You’re a legend, sir.”

Sitwell shrugged smugly, “Yes, well, thank you.”

“Um, what can I do for you?” Clint tried, straightening the folded silverware before him in a desperate attempt to do something, “Whatever you want, it’s on the house.”

“As nice as that sounds,” Jasper says, “I think it’s actually me who can do something for you.”

“Oh?” Clint said, trying not to sound too surprised, “And what would that be?”

“I’d like to offer you a job, Clint Barton.” Sitwell said with a completely straight face, “I’ve looked at your designs here. They’re really good. You have real talent here. I want to nurture that talent, let it grow. We can do some big things together, I promise you.”

“I-I’m honored, sir,” Clint said. He had no clue what else to say, “Thank you so much.”

“Of course,” Sitwell pushed his wiry glasses up his nose, “And really, there’s no need to call me sir. Just Jasper is fine.”

“Thank you for this opportunity, Jasper,” Clint said, gushing, feeling suddenly so much more awake, “I can’t wait to get started.”

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“You have a message,” Nat said to him six months later from her desk as Clint tossed his messenger’s bag onto his chair. 

Natasha Romanoff was Jasper’s other assistant designer, they all bounced ideas off each other and worked together to create Jasper’s up-and-coming fashion line. Natasha Romanoff was a fiery Russian, with ideals like steel and a great mind that was like nothing else. With the hair and the demeanor, the lighthearted joshing she had welcomed Clint to the studio with, a little voice in the back of Clint’s head had always told him to trust her. She reminded him of Roseanne. 

She has half a mouthful of banana nut muffin that she talks through, blasé, as she delivers the shock of Clint’s life, “From some guy named Barney, I think.”

Clint froze, turned slowly in her direction, eyes wide, shoulders tight, “Barney? Are you sure?” It had been almost a year since Clint had so much as heard Barney’s name. 

“Yeah,” She swallowed down a gulp of scalding hot coffee, shrugged, “Said you’d know who he was. He needs help or something, I don’t know. He said to call him back as soon as you could,” 

Clint was dialing Esmerelda’s number before Nat even finished speaking, “Have you talked to Barney lately?”

He could hear her hesitating, probably just blinking awake in the early Iowa morning, “Clint? Is that you?”

“Yes, it is- have you?”

“You know that I haven’t talked to him since he was arrested. Why, did he contact you?”

Clint tensed, “Um, no, he didn’t,” He lied, “I just wanted to know. Thanks, Esmerelda.”

“Is that really it?”

“Yeah. Have a good day then, sorry for bothering you.”

“It was my pleasure, Clint. You should call-,” Clint, feverish and twitching, hung up on her.

“I need to take a personal day” Clint said, moving to rummage through the bottom desk drawer.

Nat nodded, “I’ll tell Jasper when he gets here.”

“Thank you so much,” Clint swung his Emergency Bag over his shoulder, hand on the door handle. 

“Wait, Clint,” Nat stopped him, steely and grim and beautiful, “I just… if you need help, I’m here, okay?”

Natasha Romanoff had always come off as solitary, so solitary it could nearly be called selfish and yet, here she was, offering help, caring for somebody’s problems in the early morning white-washed starkness of Jasper Sitwell’s outer office. Despite the nerves scissoring at his limbs, Clint managed an appreciative, tight lipped smile, “He’s just somebody from when I was a kid, but I’m good, Nat,” Clint said carefully, one hand on the door. He was just as bad as she was at the whole ‘emoting’ thing, “But thank you for the offer, really. I, um, really appreciate it. Thank you.”

As soon as Clint’s feet hit the pavement at the bottom of the studio’s small set of outer stairs, he took off at a jog. 

The very second that Clint got back to his apartment, he leaned against a wall, took in three shallow breaths, and pulled out his phone. He had the number already memorized, had it memorized since high school. Barney picked up on the third ring. 

“What the hell, man?” Clint calls into the phone, still out of breath- god, he’s so out of shape, he should run more, he… is getting distracted.

“Hey, Clint,” Barney said into the phone, sounding conversational, “Good to hear your voice, too, kid. Geez.”

“No, no,” Clint panted, a warning, voice sharp, “You don’t get to kid me, Barney. It’s been four fucking years and then I get a message at my WORK that you need some kind of help? What the hell!”

Barney was so quiet for so long that Clint wondered if he actually had the balls to hang up so abruptly. He pulled the phone from his face to doublecheck The Caller ID- yep, still there. 

“Look,” Barney finally said with an exhausted sigh, “I was going through some stuff and I wasn’t in a good place and you were off at college and working hard and I just didn’t want to upset you or distract you. I was trying to do what was best for you, kid.”

Clint hated that that line actually got to him, “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, Barney,” He admitted, sadly, “But you did.”

“I’m sorry,” Barney said, the words sounding strange in Clint’s big brother’s burly voice. Clint briefly wondered if he had ever heard Barney so much as mutter those two words in his direction: he doubts it, “I’m here now, I promise. Can we… get lunch? This would be a better conversation if it were in person.”

Clint knew that the gnawing feeling sinking into his gut meant he should shake his head, say he’s much too busy, needs to work, anything really, but instead he nodded, smiled even, “Of course,” He said, “I know a great diner, right between us.”

Barney met Clint at Ben’s 34 Minutes later. Clint had been exactly on the nose. Ben’s was precisely 34 minutes away for each brother. Show off. 

“Table for two,” Clint told the hostess, a pregnant woman with the name Jenna written in swirly, pretty cursive on her name tag. She smiled at him, lead them to their table, “Thank you, darling,” Clint made sure to say. She blushed and scurried away. 

Clint ordered coffee and a burger and Barney ordered an extra thick chocolate milkshake and a BLT. They submerged themselves in an alternating pattern between blanched small talk and stuttering silence. 

“So wait,” Clint finally said, as the waitress left again with a promise of pie, “Was there a specific reason that you called me? Besides wanting to see your little brother?”

Barney leaned back in the candy-cane booth, a sluggish grin on his cheeks, “Can’t a man just want to visit his brother?”

Clint raised an eyebrow and Barney shrunk a little, “Okay, fine, I need help.”

The feeling in the pit of Clint’s belly finally settled on the bottom with disarming permanence. 

“What kind of help?”

“I had this friend,” Barney said, appearing proud despite the sheepishness that Clint recognized hiding behind his eyes, “Well, I guess he turned out to be not-so-much a friend, but… I owe him a lot of money now, you see. Like, a lot a lot, and he told me that if I didn’t pay him back soon that he would respond with physical violence and well, we can’t let him damage the moneymaker, can we?” Barney gestures vaguely at his face and Clint felt himself roll his eyes. 

“How much do you owe?”

Barney told him. Clint gaped. The feeling in his stomach ebbed up the sides, a contagious case of internal anxiety. It was almost all of what Clint had saved up, just about down to the last dime.

“Okay,” Clint agreed, nodding, “I can help you out.”

“You’re sure?” Barney asked, looking up with mayonnaise on the corner of his mouth, eyes bright. This was his brother, of course Clint was going to help, “I don’t want to set you too far back.”

Clint’s pointer finger twitched against the heated ceramic of his coffee mug, his left leg beginning to bounce up and down. His brother needed him and maybe helping him would just about Clear our Clint’s bank account, but he could earn that money back while Barney was trapped in that inescapable hellhole. He faked a smile, “You need this. I’ll do it for you, don’t worry.”

Barney’s smile was bright and wide and thankful and made Clint hate him just a little bit less. 

“I can take a check or cash, whatever works.”

A week later, Clint got a call from Esmerelda. He was at work, balancing a stack of papers and magazines and leather bound sketch books nearly the size of him, “Esmerelda!” He cheered into the phone, struggling to balance himself, “What’s up?”

Esmerelda’s tone was grave, ominous, “I want you to sit down, Clint.”

“Why?”

“Just do it, okay?”

Clint put his stack down onto a nearby table, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Barney, he’s... been arrested again.”

Clint’s breath sucks in, like a vaccuum, like he can’t breath and never has been able to, “What for?” He didn’t sound normal, voice high-pitched and choked, raspy with surprise. He began to rub circles into his temples.

“For assault,” Esmelda said into the phone, and Clint’s blood ran cold, “Apparently he had some buddies that owed him money.”

Money? Like the money that he had given to Barney? That much money? 

“How much money did they owe him?”

Esmerelda shrugged, thought about it, and gave him a hesitant number. 

Clint hung up without another word. 

The next day, Clint stared at Barney from the other side of a set of cold metal bars at the local Ridgeton County lockup, “I’ll bail you out,” He said, generously, eyes languorously sweeping the dirt of his brother’s cell, “Under one stipulation.”

Barney didn’t look up. His head was in his hands, the fluorescent bulbs digging into the matter behind his skull, aching and tugging and pulling him away from Clint’s glare. He was totally hungover- Clint had seen that exhausted slouch more times than he could count. 

“That stipulation,” Clint continued, a fingernail digging into his bicep, teeth grinding as he said it, “Is that you never seek me out ever again. Do you understand me, Barney? I never want to see you again?”

A groan came from the far corner of the cell, from the decrepit bench that inebriated and incarcerated Barney Barton had called dibs on with a slur as he banged his head on the wall alongside it. Clint was losing his patience. 

“Whatever, I just- goodbye, Barney. Good luck.”

In the end, Clint ended up posting bail. He let his brother loose, was informed of the older man’s pending court date, and left, tugging his jacket on as he stepped out into the evening glare of an ugly, smalltown dusk. He wouldn’t see his brother in a long while- forever if he was lucky.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“Hey, Clint?” Nat said to him the next day, coming up from behind and silently assuming a matched parade rest beside him, not looking at his face. They were supervising the second photo shoot of the season. They silently watched a model have too much rouge applied to her cheeks, get it dabbed off, “Are you okay?”

Clint wasn’t okay. 

He had been fucked over by his brother, his own flesh and blood, the only thing that the world had ever given him. He was alone, untrusting. His brother had fucked up everything Clint had ever claimed on his own: trust, authority, family. Clint clenched his jaw.

“I’m fine, Nat.”

He could feel her glancing at him skeptically. She knew full well that he wasn’t fine. Nat was particularly intuitive of people’s secret feelings, but she just nodded, stared right ahead as the same model got an eyelash curler pressed over her eye. 

“Just know that I’m here to talk or whatever if you want it. Hell, we can get drunk off our asses anytime you want if it’ll help. Whatever.”

Clint realized that Natasha Romanoff was not Barney Barton. 

The world was full of Barney Bartons, of heart-breakers and untrustworthy brothers, but Natasha Romanoff was neither of those. Nat was strong and loyal and just the kind of person that Clint needed in his life. 

“Thank you,” Clint muttered, “A drink sometime would be nice actually.”

They watched the model smile serenely at the makeup artist: all done and beautiful. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / 

At first, Phil worked in a very cramped office that he shared with four other junior designers. They’d stay at their small studio office well into the night, burning the midnight oil and bouncing new ideas off of each other. 

Of all of them that worked there together, Phil was the oldest by far, but also the least experienced. FitzSimmons, a pair of inseparable (and insufferably young) designers that approached their art like it was science- Fitz calculating subliminal appeal, function, and eye-popping factor like their complex algorithms were obvious and Simmons utilizing her advanced knowledge of physiology and biology to combine the sciences of body and life into the course of their designs- shared a cramped worktable against the far wall of their small studio office. Skye was zealous and quirky, loud as all would get out. She often attempted to organize ‘team outings’ that she would claim were for team bonding but everybody knew it was just because she wanted to see if she could get Phil hammered. Her plans never worked. But Skye was talented, only out of school for just a small amount of time and she had an inquisitive sort of knack for coming up with youthful, refreshing designs. Then there was Ward, who was an entirely different piece of pie. Ward was often difficult and terse, short tempered and strict in his ways. Ward had been there longer than any of them. He had been classically trained in Paris for several years, bankrolled by a father that he refused to talk about and well, Ward was set in his ways, appreciated things done exactly how they always had- stagnancy was never a good trait to have in the evermoving fashion industry. Ward fought with the other designers constantly. 

Phil, as was his natural response, fought back against Ward’s aggression like the others couldn’t. 

“Ward, please,” Phil begged one day, his shoulders forming a hard line, “We need your part of the first draft to send up to May, but it has to fit with the rest of our pieces.”

“I know what I’m doing, Coulson,” Ward responded, a pencil poised viciously within his fingers, “Just let me do what I always do.”

“But Ward,” Phil said, as FitzSimmons cowered over their papers and Skye focused on her suddenly-very-interesting lunch, “Sometimes doing what you always do isn’t what you need to do to come out with your best work.”

Ward flared, eyes feeding venom, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Phil said bravely, “That maybe your designs are getting a bit repetitive. Have you thought about changing your process a bit?”

For a designer, repetitive was the worst insult Phil could have given. The kind-sounding advice that it came out in sounded like boiled daggers to Ward and he stormed out of the small room with a pad of sketching papers under one arm and a pencil trapped within his white-knuckled fist. 

“That was pretty cool, A.C.” Skye commented, mouthful of burger, as Phil regretfully watched the door that Ward had fled through.

“Cool? I pissed off our office mate so much that he couldn’t stand being in the same room as me. I wouldn’t call it cool.”

“Eh,” Skye took a loud bite of her salad, “Ward’s kinda an asshole anyway.”

Phil couldn’t help it: he snorted, “He kinda is, isn’t he? Good thing he won’t be here forever.”

Within six months of working alongside Skye and FitzSimmons and Ward, Phil was promoted to the editing floor just upstairs, out of the cramped office that they shared. 

“Guess this is goodbye then, Coulson,” Ward had sniffed stiffly as Phil piled his belongings into a cardboard box to take upstairs, “It was good knowing ya’.”

“You do know… that I’m only going upstairs, right, Ward? I’m not moving to Oregon or like… dying or anything?”

Ward friendliness faded completely and instead he glared at Coulson derisively, “Yeah,whatever.”

So Grant Ward was maybe a tad jealous? So what? He was an asshole anyway. 

And it’s not like Phil didn’t deserve his promotion. 

Upstairs, Phil is allowed to hire an assistant. That’s not to say theres a line of people of any sort eagerly applying for the job, but there’s at least a few applicants, well there’s a couple, there’s enough- it’s one, there’s only one application. Good enough though, right?

“It says here that you go by Darcy, is that correct, Miss Lewis?”

She nodded happily, beaming, “Yep! The name’s Darcy and boning’s my game- aha!”

Phil had no clue how to respond to that. It was Phil’s first time conducting a job interview, but he was pretty positive that the interviewees didn’t generally talk about, um, sexual endeavors, especially not in their introduction. 

Basically what Phil gets out of the interview is that Darcy is kinda the worst possible assistant. She’s a computer graphics major with little sense of fashion. Her professionalism is completely whack and she openly admits that she’s only in it for the money. She’s kinda awful for the job, but she’s also the only person that applied. 

“Thank you for coming in,” Phil said at the end of the interview, “I’ll let you know within a couple of weeks if you get the position.”

Darcy winked cheekily, “See ya’ then, boss man.”

Two weeks later and Darcy was still the only applicant. Phil admitted regretfully to himself that he had a phone call to make. There was no reason that he should have expected more than one applicant. Hell, he was lucky to have gotten any. He was still just about nobody, just a nobody with his name tacked onto three Melinda May projects as basically a footnote, an afterthought, a nobody.

“Ms. Lewis? It’s Phil Coulson. I’m just calling to tell you that the assistant position is yours if you wish to accept it.”

“Really?” Darcy’s voice comes booming through the receiver, “Awesomesauce! I totally thought I screwed the pooch on that interview! Aha! I’m employed, I’m employed, I’m employed, I’m em-,”

“Are you dancing, Miss Lewis?”

He can hear her freeze on the other end of the line, “... No? Because that wouldn’t be very professional of me, so no, uh huh, I’m not dancing.”

Well, at least she’s learning, it’s something. 

“I’ll see you at my office on Monday, Miss Lewis. Congratulations and goodbye.”

“Bye, sir! Have a good we-,”

Phil hung up on Darcy before she was able to finish her wellwishing. 

Darcy turned out to be a much better assistant than Phil had expected. Sure, sometimes she would get distracted on the way back to office when he had her run errands, or she would completely forget about a completely basic but integral task that Phil assigned, but she turned out to be surprisingly good with people, it’s shocking , she can get herself (and Phil, in turn) away with so much shit. Phil sent her off to make copies one day and even though she brought back copies on bright pink copier paper, she also brought free sandwiches that she had swindled from the cafeteria just below the copying room. She once left on a coffee run and came back with Tom Ford’s personal phone number (which Phil made her throw away, out of pure shock and disbelief that it was obtained with solid moral standards). 

Free food and millionaires’ contact information aside, Darcy turned out to be a much better assistant than Phil had expected. Even though she had approximately zero sense of style or fashion, she was a quick study and always had some opinion or another. What Phil really appreciated about her though was that she was fiercely loyal, so loyal Phil almost considered it some sort of suicide complex, there until the end with her loud voice and eccentric, inappropriately timed dance moves. 

May cut all but one of Phil’s designs from the studio’s Spring portfolio. Phil, disappointed and exhausted, shook his head at Darcy when the memo came in, “I’m gonna take a half day off, okay?” He said, pointedly covering up all the designs that he had submitted to May with a heavy folder, not wanting the reminder. He had worked so hard on those. It was the first studiowide portfolio since his promotion and he had really wanted something that would pop. May had been calling on him lately, more than any other junior designer, but his designs were slashed in the end and yeah, it hurt, “You can stay, if you want. I know you like to get paid and there’s no reason that you should be forced to take a halfday just because I’m emotional.”

Darcy crossed her arms across her chest, staring daggers at the memo as Phil crumpled it up and tossed it into the trash can, “I’m going to stay,” She told him after a beat, “I have some things I need to do.”

Phil suspected that those things included online shopping and trolling Ward on Facebook on the company’s dime, but at the moment he couldn’t really care less, “Maybe just don’t clock in any overtime, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He slipped silently out the door, leaving Darcy alone in his office. 

When Phil came back to work the next day, he felt much better about the whole ‘none of your hard work as validated and nothing that you do has ever mattered’ thing. He’d always been one to bounce back quickly. The surprise, however, was the e-mail from May that he found when he signed into his computer. 

I’ve decided to switch out two of Ward’s designs for two of yours. It read and Phil felt his heart pick up optimistically. Fax them over again so I can rearrange the portfolio. By the way, you have a good assistant, I approve. Also, I would you to submit six designs to me for my Fall Showcase. -M.M.

“Hey, Darcy?” Phil asked, rereading the succinct email, “What did you do?”

Darcy read the email from over his shoulder and beamed, “Hey! Would ya look at that!”

“Darcy, what did you do?”

“Nothing, really, I just… went and talked to May after you left. I told her how hard that you had worked on that, how she had even tweaked and approved them in their prelimary stages and that she was being an idiot for using Ward’s work over yours in the portfolio just because he’s been working here long and he has just a little bit more name recognition. That’s all, really. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“You did… what?”

“Ward did not deserve that many works in the portfolio. I mean, honestly, he’s not even that good.” Darcy had taken hold of one of Phil’s expensive pens while she ranted, began twirling it violently between her fingers while she leaned against the edge of Phil’s desk and talked, “Plus, that guy is a total asshole. He really needed to be taken down a peg and this will definitely help.”

“Darcy, I… thank you, for that. You didn’t have to.”

Darcy shrugged, “I saw how hard you had worked on those designs. I can practically guarantee you that Ward didn’t work that hard. Plus, you’re a pretty good boss.” 

The entire gesture would have been really sweet if she didn’t punctuate the moment by inelegantly throwing Phil’s pen at him.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / 

Darcy and Nat first meet at a Fashion Expo. It’s the perfect disaster of a first meeting, exactly what you would expect from the Work Wives of Phil Coulson and Clint Barton. 

They both have eyes on one of the up-and-coming amateur models that May and Sitwell both really wanted to snatch off the scene and call their own before anybody else hired her. 

“Miss Morse!” Darcy cheered, just as Nat rounded on the pair of them, “It’s a pleasure to meet you!”

“Oh, Miss Morse,” Nat said, a hand on the model’s elbow, “I just wanted to say that I love your work.”

“Excuse me,” Darcy’s brows furrowed, looking more like a ferret compared to Natasha’s elegant lioness, but it was better than nothing, “But I was here first.”

“That really isn’t how conversations work.” 

“That really isn’t how your face works.”

“What? How old are you?”

“Old enough to be awesome-aha!”

“What? That doesn’t even- where’d the model go?”

“She…” Darcy looked around to find that Bobbi had indeed slipped away while the pair had been arguing, “Ugh, good going. Recruiting Bobbi was my only job for today.”

“Oh, please,” Nat scoffed, arms crossed elegantly like a serene sort of battle stance, “You couldn’t land Morse if you kidnapped her and threatened her with violence unless she joined your firm.”

Darcy made a face, “That’s… oddly violent? Are you okay?”

Natasha just rolled her eyes.

“Nat!” A voice called from the crowd, “Nat, guess what!” A body appeared then, a muscular man coming up beside Natasha with a smile on her face.

Nat didn’t turn her glare away from Darcy as she spoke, “What, Clint?”

“They have this amazing booth that- wait, who’s this?”

“My name is Darcy Lewis.” She replied proudly, not even extending her hand in welcome because Nat was still glaring and it was intimidating goddammit but she was Darcy fricking Lewis and she could stand up to a badass, “I work for Melinda May’s studio, I’m Phil Coulson’s assistant.”

Natasha just kept on glaring, but the name drop made Clint falter, his eyes narrow, “Phil Coulson?”

That wasn’t the typical response, “You know him?”

“Older, wears suits unnecessarily often, likes working with paper?”

“Yeah…” Darcy said, skeptically, “That definitely sounds like my boss. Who are… you?”

“Clint Barton.” A voice answered, but it wasn’t the stranger in front of her. Phil appearred at her side, and now he was glaring, too, “Been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Phil.” Clint responded tersely. 

“What’re you doing here?” Phil crossed his arms. Phil never crossed his arms, not unless he was feeling incredibly defensive.

“Scouting talent for my boss,” Clint responded, his nose in the air, “You might have heard of him, Jasper Sitwell.” Phil was annoyingly impressed, not that he let his face show it.

“Yes, I think I’ve heard of him. He’s the one that Vogue magazine said was getting boring and repetitive, right?”

Clint dutifully ignored the snide remark, “Your adorable assistant here told me that you’re working for Melinda May.”

Darcy actually growled. Hey, if nothing else the girl certainly had heart, okay. 

“Come on, Darcy.” Phil said, wrapping a hand around his assistant’s elbow, “We have some people we need to talk to.”

“You’re not leaving here with Morse, Lewis!” Nat called after them. She was totally asking for it, okay?

Darcy turned, just minutely for a fraction of a second before being swallowed by the crowd, “Watch me, Romanoff!”

In the end, Bobbi Morse didn’t sign on with either of them. Word got out that she had rather bravely decided to freelance, based on the sharktank-like conversations she had had at the expo. It wasn’t exactly a bad choice. 

Over the course of the month’s that follow the Bobbi Morse Incident, Melinda May’s trust in Phil grew exponentially. He still had Darcy by his side as his assistant to do all of the general ‘threatening’ and ‘defending Phil Coulson’ things, but seeing Clint at the expo had sparked a competitive part of Phil that he hadn’t seen in a very, very long time and Phil used that spark to push himself to work harder than ever. He leapfrogged over many designers, creating innovative designs that always seemed to hit the incoming trends on the nose. Soon enough, Phil essentially became Melinda May’s right hand, just about the only person in the entire building that she trusted anymore.

Phil still had lunch every Tuesday with FitzSimmons and Skye- but not Ward, Ward wasn’t invited (not that he would come if he was invited, but he wasn’t invited). He ordered the same thing every time, their usual waitress had his order memorized and a smile at the ready. Darcy still got distracted, would come back hours later from an incomplete errand with a puppy named Charles and a cardboard box of pirated DVDs that she’s never watched before. But now, when Darcy told her old schoolmates that she worked for Phil Coulson, about 1 in every 5 (they were still just computer graphics majors, most of them probably wouldn’t recognize Anna Wintour if she came up and handed them her card) would glance at her, impressed, and ask, “Really?”

So, sure, things were the same, but… different. 

After all of his hard work, Phil finally had some pull in this complicated, competitive world. His office was bigger than it ever had been, though absolutely littered with scraps of designs of his own as well as his underlings’ work, his reputation growing positively every day. His nights were longer than ever: Phil often being the last non-janitorial-staff personnel left in the building, but he was fine with that. 

“Hey, Phil,” A voice said from his open office door late one Tuesday, a quick knuckle-faced rap on the doorframe revealing her presence, “Y’know I heard you stayed late.”

Phil swiveled around away from his work desk toward his door and smiled, “Maria,” He said, “Come on in! What’s brought you over here? Did Nick do something idiotic?”

Maria snorted, but shook her head, “No, but I’m definitely telling Nick that you said that. Actually, I’m here to offer you something.”

“And what’s that?” Phil leaned back in his chair, it creaked against the waiting silence. 

“A job opportunity.”

“I’m sure it’s great, whatever the job is, but I really am happy right where I am, I-,”

“So you want to work for May forever?”

“Well, no, but-,”

“Come on, Phil. Don’t be dense. This is literally a once-in-lifetime opportunity I’m offering you here. At least listen to me, and then apply, and then if you’re offered the job you can feel free to turn it down all you like.”

Phil stared up at her skeptically, took a heavy beat to pause, “Alright,” He said finally, glancing up at her as he folding his hands across his chest, “What’s your opportunity?”

“Oh, you’re gonna love it,” Maria grinned, wide and cunning, and damn if Phil wasn’t just a little bit intrigued, “It’s for a position you’ll love- Offical Designer of the Avengers.”

If anybody asked in the future, Phil would blame it on the exhaustion and the late hour when he fell of his chair at Maria’s words, but yeah, he totally fanboyed so hard he fell. Oops. He just really loved Captain America, okay? 

It was literally his dream to be the Avengers’ designer. Seriously. He had an entire sketchbook dedicated to reinventions and reimaginations of variations on Captain America’s classic costume. 

“Okay,” Phil agreed, trying to appear graceful as Maria cackled a laugh at his expense, “I’ll apply for the job, but only because you asked so nicely.”

“Yeah,” Maria said, turning towards the door and waving in his direction as she left with her back facing him, “Sure, Mr. Nerd, whatever you say. I’ll see you around.” At the door, she turned to face him again, a shiteating grin on her face, “Good luck with that job opportunity, Phil Coulson. I hope you get the chance to turn it down, because you’re so comfortable here and all, y’know.” 

She cackled again as she shut Phil’s door behind her. Goddamn Maria Hill.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / 

“Jasper,” Clint leaned against the doorframe of his boss’s office, “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, Clint,” Jasper said, very obviously trying not to smile, “Have a seat, why don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Clint took a seat across from Sitwell, “What’s up?”

“I have an offer for you.”

Clint leaned forward, elbows on his knees, brow cocked, “What kind of offer?”

Sitwell leaned back in his chair, smug, “A good one.”

“Jasper-,”

“Okay, okay, fine,” His boss restituâtes himself in a more believable manner, no longer over-confident and smug, more Jasper Sitwell than James Bond, “It’s a huge opportunity and I would take it really, but I’ve got a company to run and a name to uphold and you’re my number two basically, right? So I figured, hey, I’d take the offer to you because if somebody else-,”

“Jasper,” Clint repeated, rolling his eyes, “Get to the point.”

“Right, sorry,” Jasper shook his head, “You should be the Official Designer of the Avengers.”

“The what?”

“You know those powered people that keeping showing up? The tin can and the American Flag reincarnate and the big green giant and the-,”

“I know who the Avengers are, Jasper. But why do they need a designer?”

“Because,” Sitwell answered, pulling out some paperwork, “Apparently Steve Rogers and Tony Stark rarely get along but they work on a lot of PR stuff together and they actually managed to agree that the team needed some… fashion advice, so Tony Stark decided to create the position and now they’re hiring.”

“I’m… actually interested.” Clint said, surprising himself, “Thanks, Jasper.”

Sitwell grinned, “Anytime, Number Two.”

Clint grimaced as he reached Jasper’s office door, “Please don’t call me that.”

“Will do, Right Hand.”

“Not that either.” Clint said, pulling the door closed behind him, “We’ll work on it, J!”


End file.
